


Leaves in the River

by rabidchild67



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Halloween, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Teen Angst, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-05
Updated: 2014-11-05
Packaged: 2018-02-24 05:13:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2569421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabidchild67/pseuds/rabidchild67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens when Chris meets Zach at Carnegie Mellon University during a college tour in 1997 will change neither of them, but it makes for a nice story anyway. </p><p>This story was inspired by the lyrics of the song "Leaves in the River” by Sea Wolf.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leaves in the River

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to jouissants for all her support, and to kanarek13 for pulling such beautiful art out of the ether in no time flat.

**Halloween, 1997**

Chris ran to catch an elevator that would take him to his appointment on the third floor. He felt like he’d been running all day – first he’d had to run for the bus at the airport, which had taken way too long to get here, so then he’d run to get into the building and now to the elevator. His assigned time for a campus tour of Carnegie Mellon University was at 10:00 am sharp, and being late was practically abhorrent to him.

The elevator was too warm and stuffy, making him yawn loudly. His mom had warned him about trying to do the tour right as he got off the plane – she’d wanted him to arrive the day before so he could get acclimated and get a good night’s sleep. But the redeye had been a lot cheaper and, while his parents were well-enough off to send him to private school, they weren't exactly swimming in cash, so Chris felt a responsibility to be economical. He was already going to be staying with Aimee Lynn – a friend of his sister Katie’s who was about to graduate from the School of Pharmacy in the spring – an entire year ahead of her class. 

He was practically asleep on his feet by the time he arrived on the third floor.

Luckily, the tour he was signed up for hadn’t departed yet. He sat in a waiting room with about a dozen other kids and their parents, filling out some paperwork and half-listening to the tour orientation video that played on a nearby VCR.

Chris wasn’t sure if he wanted to go to CMU next year or not – he wasn’t sure of much of anything when it came to his future, other than he wanted to major in English and he maybe wanted to be a writer. His dad said CMU was a good liberal arts college; Chris didn't know quite what that meant, but when Katie’s friend offered to host him for the weekend, he’d jumped at the chance. He’s never traveled this far away from home without his parents before, and it was beyond exciting.

When the video ended, he and the others followed their tour guide, a perky sociology student whose name Chris didn't catch, on a comprehensive tour. It included a mini history lesson on the university and its founders, as well as tidbits on the architecture of the buildings, the flavor of the area of the city where the campus was located, and a few references to student traditions and life that frankly flew over Chris’s head. He kept quietly near the back of the group, sticking close to a girl named Maya from New Jersey and her mom, who seemed to have picked up on the fact that he was there alone and more or less adopted him for the morning. 

About halfway through the tour, they were shown the theater arts building and given a tour of the performance spaces. CMU boasted the oldest school of drama in the country, the fact of which Chris, being the child of a family of actors, was acutely aware. He hadn’t given much thought to studying acting – even if he had participated in a couple of productions in high school – but he found the presentation about the school and the broader fine arts curriculum on offer to be interesting nonetheless. 

Their tour took them through the smaller of the two campus theaters, where a group of students were in rehearsals for a production of what looked like _The Iceman Cometh_ , if the sets on stage were anything to go on. Chris half watched the action on stage and half paid attention to the tour guide as she explained the history of CMU’s drama program in hushed tones so as not to disturb the action onstage. She was not successful.

The director called for the actors to begin another scene, and they arranged themselves accordingly, but as the scene continued, the kid playing Hickey looked pretty distracted. He flubbed the lines of the famous monologue in the final act pretty spectacularly, a fact literally everyone on the stage and in the theater was aware of. The director – another student from what Chris could tell – called for a ten minute break, and the cast scattered. She called the Hickey kid over and they had a quiet conversation with their heads bent together. They both looked over at the tour group – the director seemed to be mildly curious, but if looks could kill, Hickey would be down for a life sentence soon. Chris felt bad for both of them – he was sure they didn’t need the distraction the group had brought. 

After the tour, Maya and her mom invited Chris to come to TGI Friday’s with them for lunch, but Chris was supposed to meet Aimee Lynn at a campus cafeteria, and he was kind of excited about it.

Chris had an embarrassing love of institutional food that defied explanation to anyone, including himself. His mom was a gourmet cook and he loved her food, but he’d take an industrial helping of goulash over a fancy restaurant meal almost any day of the week. He couldn’t wait to eat in an actual college cafeteria.

Aimee Lynn was waiting for him in the bright sunshine outside the single-story building that served as one of the many cafeterias around campus, Ray-Bans glinting in the sun and her blonde hair arranged in a pair of pigtails that hung past her pale shoulders. Chris, who hadn’t seen her in nearly two years, barely recognized her – it was apparently true what they said about college maturing some people. Aimee Lynn looked hotter than usual, which was a problem, since Chris had suffered his first crush on her back in fifth grade when she was in tenth, a crush he had since definitely gotten over. Mostly.

“Hi, Aimee Lynn,” he said when she looked his way, grinning despite the butterflies in his stomach.

“Chris? Holy shit, Pine, have you gotten tall! Oh my God, come here!” She slipped her arms around his neck and gave him a tight hug, then rested her hands lightly on his shoulders. “I can’t believe my little one is all grown up.” She ran her hands down his shoulders to his upper arms, pausing to squeeze his biceps appreciatively. “ _All_ grown up.”

“Time and proper nutrition do wonders, don’t they?” he snarked, and she punched him on the arm.

“Always a smart ass. Can’t wait to catch up with you, but let’s get you inside first – I am not going to risk Gwynne’s wrath if I don’t keep you properly fed and watered, so come on!”

Lunch looked terrific – Chris filled his tray with beef and broccoli and French fries, plus a salad and two kinds of pie for dessert.

“Good to see the vaunted Pine appetite hasn’t changed,” Aimee Lynn observed as she led him to a table near the edge of the large dining room. They caught up on happenings back home and were eventually joined by friends of Aimee’s from the dorm, as well as some guy named Clark that Aimee introduced as her boyfriend.

It was a lot of fun, but nearly as soon as his belly was full, Chris began to feel the effects of his redeye travels the night before, and Aimee took pity on him. She led the way to her on-campus apartment, which she shared with three other women – two of which were away for the weekend, giving Chris his own room to stay in. He crashed almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.

When he awoke, it was already dark outside, and he padded out to the living room to find Aimee and two other women chattering and drinking glasses of wine as they made each other up and did each other’s hair.

“What’s going on?” he said around a yawn.

“Oh my god, aren’t you the cutest thing,” one of the young women said.

“I’m sorry?”

“You guys, stop it, you’ll frighten him!” Aimee Lynn chided her friends. “This is Chris Pine, he’s my best friend from home’s little brother. He’s here to visit campus – see if he wants to come here next year.”

“Cali boy, huh? Looking at you, I wish they ALL could be California Boys,” the young woman said. She was African American, petite, with green eyes that looked him over appraisingly.

“Aishah!” Aimee Lynn said, laughing. “Please behave – he’s just a kid.”

“I’m 17!” Chris said, and damn it if this colder, damper East coast air didn’t make his voice squeak.

“Sorry, Chris. These are two of my sorority sisters – Aishah and Pamela, and I swear they’re not degenerate pervs. Aishah is also one of my roommates.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Chris said, trying to shake the feeling they were looking at him like a lab rat. 

“Aw, don’t look so freaked out, Chris,” Pamela said kindly. She was tall and athletic, with deep olive skin and dark hair cut Betty Page-style, a tattoo of a rose on her upper right arm, and a pierced nose. “We never, ever bite in a non-consenting manner.”

“That’s encouraging.”

They laughed and Aishah offered him some of the wine they were drinking. Chris looked over at Aimee Lynn.

“Don’t look to me, cookie – if you don’t tell your mom, I won’t tell your mom.”

Chris grinned and accepted a small plastic cup that Aishah filled from a gallon jug, whose label read, “Señor Sangria.” “So what are you guys doing?” he asked, taking a seat at the kitchen table.

“It’s Halloween!” Pamela said.

“Oh yeah!” In the mad rush to get here, Chris had actually forgotten about the holiday.

“There’s a party in the quad at 10:00 for folks who live in the apartments – you wanna come?” Aimee Lynn asked.

Chris’s face lit up, but Pamela answered for him. “Of course he wants to come.”

“But costumes are required,” Aimee Lynn pointed out.

“Well, there must be something we can find around here to dress him up!”

Having grown up with an older sister, Chris was used to being dressed up, made up, having his hair and nails done and all sorts of indignities. It barely fazed him anymore, to be quite honest, so he wasn’t sure if the girls were trying to test him or not as they worked through his costuming options.

“Drag?” Aishah suggested, and Chris carefully sipped his wine, which was kinda sweet and very delicious.

“I don’t think anything I have would fit him,” Aimee Lynn said as if that were the least of their problems.

“Darn – I was hoping to curl this gorgeous hair,” Aishah said, running her fingers through it. Chris shivered with pleasure – he loved anyone doing that, even a relative stranger, especially since he’d grown his hair out. It was really long now and curled around his ears and the back of his collar.

“Baby New Year?” Pamela suggested. “We’ve still got last year’s noisemakers and hats around here somewhere.”

“You know, I would normally say why not,” Aimee Lynn replied, “but don’t you think it’s a bit chilly for him to be running around in a diaper?”

“Um, yes?” Chris said. They all laughed.

Pamela grabbed a large plastic shopping bag that sat on the floor that held a variety of accessories and bits of clothing in it, and began rooting through it. “How about these angel wings?” she asked, holding up something that looked hand-made; they were well-made, with long white feathers affixed, their tips festooned with silver glitter.

“Those are for me,” Aimee Lynn said, snatching them from her and hugging them to her chest.

“Oh, you and every other girl dressed like Claire Danes out there, right, Juliet?” Aishah teased. Aimee Lynn threw a pretzel at her head.

“Can we do anything with this?” Pamela held up a length of silk greenery. “It’s from my Poison Ivy costume last year.”

Aishah regarded it with mischievous green eyes. “Maybe?”

“I don’t like the look on your face,” Aimee Lynn said in a tone that meant the total opposite.

Chris didn't know what he expected from his first real college party, but a bunch of kids sitting around on couches they had dragged outside, drinking beer and smoking weed, wasn't it. He'd probably seen too many movies, but he was a little disappointed there were no drunken school mascots or coeds doing keg stands around at all.

He looked down at himself – at the white t-shirt dress belted at his waist and the bed sheet slung across his body and around his hips – and thought that at least the fact he had a toga on amounted to a kind of homage. The crown of silk ivy Aishah had crafted tended to hang in his eyes, though, and she kept smacking his hands away as he tried to push it to sit on the back of his head. He “lost” it the moment she was out of eye shot. He was still dubious about the need for eye liner and mascara, but he didn't want to find a place to wash his face, so he left it.

It didn't take long for him to lose sight of Aimee Lynn and her friends, so he headed over to the keg and tried to look inconspicuous. He grabbed a red cup and got in line, holding it out for the guy who appeared to be the self-appointed bartender. 

“Should I be carding you, my lad?” he asked, staring at Chris owlishly. Which was appropriate because he was dressed up as Woodsy the Owl.

“Uh, no?” Chris cleared his throat. “I mean, no, I am totally 21.”

Woodsy tapped the side of his nose. “Carry on, then,” he said expansively and Chris took his cup and wandered off. 

He stood on the edge of the crowd and sipped his beer. It wasn't as horrible as the PBR his friend Dylan usually scored when they hung out, but it wasn't much better. He winced at the bitterness – the promise of getting drunk far outweighing any objection he might have to the taste – and then the cup was empty and he went back for another. 

Woodsy had gone by the time Chris returned to the keg, so Chris poured his own then offered to do so for a girl that came up dressed as a sexy nurse. 

“Thanks,” she said.

Chris smiled shyly, not making eye contact. He never really got the knack of talking to girls very well, and this one was a _college girl_.

“You're cute,” she said, sipping her beer. “You go here?”

“Uh, yeah!” Chris said. “Sure.” 

“Freshman?”

“Yeah,” he admitted, because there was no way he'd pass for much older. 

“Me too. I'm Marcy.”

“Chris.”

“Want to dance, Chris?”

Chris glanced over at the clutch of people who were dancing on a nearby patch of grass, swaying to and fro as they hugged their red cups to their chests, a Dave Matthews song playing on a portable stereo nearby. 

“I don't really dance,” Chris was forced to admit. And he didn't – he couldn't without feeling like a complete tool. He had two left feet, and besides that he knew he made stupid faces when he danced. 

“Oh,” Marcy said, looking disappointed. She was cute, with wavy brown hair and bangs. 

Chris sipped his beer. 

“Well, I should go then,” she said and then she did. 

Chris stared after her, replaying their interaction in his head and wondering if it might have gone any differently if he'd have danced with her. His conclusion was that no, it would not. 

He downed his beer so fast it made his eyes tear, then poured himself another. He wandered back over toward the edge of the party and noticed a spot on one of the couches had opened up. There was a couple making out on one end, moaning extravagantly into each other's mouths, and Chris could feel his ears heating up at the noises they were making. He was relieved when they finally parted and was a little astounded to see that the one in the Morticia Addams outfit was a dude. 

“What are you looking at?” he sneered at Chris, blood red lipstick smudged across his pale face. 

“Nothing,” Chris blurted. 

“What, you've never seen two guys kissing before?” Morticia seemed not a little bit drunk in addition to his belligerence. 

“I'm from LA,” Chris said, as if that explained it. 

“Oh,” Morticia said, blinking. “Well, ok then.”

Apparently it did. 

Morticia and his date toddled off a moment later, leaving Chris staring after them. Chris had no problem with dudes kissing or girls kissing or whatever. He’d kissed a guy once himself, that one time, at Libby Jablonski’s New Year’s party. Her older brother Ike had found Chris standing under the mistletoe and they had begun to make out. It was nice, until Ike suggested they go out to the hot tub where he jerked Chris off and Chris rather embarrassingly came in under two minutes. He was too ashamed by that to process what had been his very first sexual encounter, but (now that it was over with and behind him)he was kind of proud of it. 

So no, two guys kissing wasn't that big a deal to him. 

He was contemplating getting another beer when someone dropped onto the couch beside him. "Having fun?” Aimee Lynn asked. 

“Sure.” 

“Yeah me neither. We’re going to a party off campus at Pamela’s ex’s Corey’s house. You wanna come?”

“OK.”

The house was large and rambling. A Victorian, or so Aimee Lynn said, which had no meaning, really, to Chris. It was located in the middle of a residential street that was lined on both sides by tall oaks on either side. The trees were pretty old, large enough that their branches touched over the center of the street. Chris gazed up through their canopies at the sky. It had been clear earlier in the day but he could see clouds scudding in, lighter against the darker, starry sky. The moon was already mostly obscured. Someone had mentioned rain the next morning, and Chris didn't doubt it. The wind was picking up too, ruffling Chris’s hair.

There were no spaces nearby, so they had to park three blocks away. The neighborhood they walked through was comprised of similar homes, wood-framed and large, with spacious lots that held tall trees just like the ones out on the street. It was all very strange to Valley-bred Chris, who had only been exposed to more modern construction, but he found he liked the dark wood floors and solid plaster walls quite well. It reminded him of old movies. 

The party proper was being held in the basement, which was accessible down a set of disconcertingly steep wooden steps. The space was framed out to mirror the rooms on the floor above. The ceilings were lower than Chris would have expected; a few really tall guys had to duck their heads as they walked under the I-beams. Someone who must have fancied themselves Elvira's set decorator had gone to town, and there were fake spider webs, skeletons, gravestones, zombies, and about a hundred other things plastered everywhere. Dry ice mist flowed out of a plastic cauldron to pool along the cement floor, ebbing and flowing around folks’ ankles until it finally dissipated. 

"Leave it to theater majors to go overboard," Aishah snarked. 

"You're not kidding," Chris said and went off in search of drinks. He returned with a couple of long necks and two cups of punch, letting his companions choose what they wanted. He was left with a bottle of Bud, which he began to chug like it was his job. 

"Hey slow down maybe," Aimee advised. 

He shrugged and complied, not that it appeared to matter to her as she, Aimee Lynn, and Pamela left him to hit the dance floor where the DJ was apparently partying like it was 1989. 

Chris wandered through the basement taking in the decorations, some of which were worthy of the highest end haunted houses he’d seen. There were corpses in coffins, ghosts and ghouls – the whole nine yards. 

When he got to the rear of the basement, he found a group of five people seated on two musty old couches. One of them, a man, sat on the back of one of them, his feet on the cushions. He wore a velvet vest and matching leggings and little else. His broad chest and muscular arms were lightly furred and his face was heavily made up – a pale base and eyes lined with kohl, which he had also used to highlight his brows and the beard he sported – and he wore flowers and leaves in his shoulder-length hair. Chris swallowed as the dank smell of weed hit him. 

"How now, mad spirit!,” the man said when he caught sight of Chris. “What night-rule now about this haunted grove?”

All eyes turned to Chris, who stammered through the answering dialogue,  
“My mistress with a monster is in love.  
Near to her close and sacred bower,  
While she was in her, um, sleeping hour,  
A crew of patches, rude mechanicals,  
That work for coins upon Athenian stalls,  
Were met together to rehearse a play  
Intended for great Theseus' wedding-day.”

“Oberon” grinned widely. “Not bad, kid – you missed a few words here and there, but not bad at all.”

Chris grinned – he’d played Puck in a production of _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_ when he’d gone to drama camp in eighth grade, and he was surprised he could remember as much as he did. “It’s been a while.”

"You're all right kid. Have a seat.” He tapped the shoulder of the kid sitting beside him who moved to the other couch to allow Chris room. “I'm Joe," Oberon said, holding out a meaty hand, which Chris shook.

“Chris.”

“Nice to meet you, Chris. What brings you to town?”

“I’m uh, checking out schools.”

“Nice. To study what?” 

“English? I think?”

“Well, if you’re looking to land in a place where you can sort it all out, then CMU’s not a bad start.”

“What’s your major?” It was the first question people seemed to ask each other, so Chris thought it was a safe one.

“Drama. In case that wasn’t obvious.”

“My dad’s an actor,” Chris said before thinking it through; he could feel his ears and cheeks heat. He wasn’t embarrassed by the fact his dad was an actor – he was super proud of it, in fact. What he disliked was getting attention for it himself, and here he was calling it out.

“Yeah? He famous?” said the girl sitting on the other side of Joe. She was dressed as Magenta from Rocky Horror.

“Not really. He’s a character actor.”

“He been in anything good?”

“A couple TV shows.”

“Cool!” The joint they had all been passing around came to her and she held it out to Chris. “You want?”

“Sure,” Chris said, taking a puff and holding it in as long as he could before he’d have to cough – he didn’t want to do that, not in front of a bunch of older kids. He held it out awkwardly until Joe took it from him, taking his own hit at it.

“TV is cool,” Joe said as a miasma of smoke flowed out of his mouth. “I’d rather do movies, I think. Though I’m not sure I’ll have much choice in the matter.”

“Yeah,” Magenta said ruefully. “I’ll be happy just to get an agent, I think.”

“Is it hard?” Chris asked. He had no clue and didn’t really care, but he thought it’d be nice to show some interest. It was nice and warm here on the couch, which was a rusty-brownish color, made of some kind of velvet. It felt good on his hand, he thought, as he realized he’d been petting it for the last few minutes. 

“I think it must be.”

“That’s too bad.” Chris's thoughts wandered for a bit and he sat back on the couch, staring at the ceiling. He could have sworn he could see the stars but that wasn't right, was it? It was cloudy out. And he was high.

Someone was nudging his shoulder to pass him the joint again. He took a drag and held the smoke in, easier this time, saying, "I really shouldn't," on the exhale. Nearly everyone nodded sagely. He handed the thing to Joe.

"How old'r you?" Magenta asked. 

"17," Chris answered because it didn't occur to him to lie. 

"Huh. Well I've never corrupted the morals of a minor before.”

“There’s always a first time,” Chris answered and everyone laughed, Joe the loudest and longest of all. He slid down and wrapped an arm around Chris’s neck, holding his head close to Chris’s. “I like you, Chris.”

“Hey Manganiello, don’t bogart that joint,” someone else said, and Chris could feel Joe lean over to hand it off. 

“I like you,” he repeated and pressed his lips to Chris’s forehead. Then he patted Chris on the head like a dog. 

“Thanks,” Chris answered, grinning. He could feel the love, coming off of each of the people there. “I love all of you.”

“Cool,” Magenta said, placing a hand on Joe’s knee. He turned to her and they started making out.

Chris stared at them until he realized he was staring at them and then blinked at the floor, spacing. A minute later, he got up off the couch.

“You going?” someone said.

“Gotta piss,” Chris mumbled, the urge suddenly so strong he was desperate. He picked his way out of the small enclosure and turned to walk back the way he’d come, through the party. But the basement was really crowded, and he began to think he’d never make it. A cool breeze at his back made him turn; in the corner was another set of stairs, these leading out of the house through a Bilco door. Chris headed for them and outside, finding himself in the backyard. Glancing around, he was relieved to see that no one was around, and stumbled over to a large rhododendron to empty his bladder.

When he looked back up, the yard of the house whose property butted up against this one appeared to have been set up as a haunted graveyard, so Chris thought he’d have a look. The yards were separated by nothing more than a row of boxwoods, so he slid between two of the shrubs and had a look around. It was kind of hilarious – gravestones made of Styrofoam bore the names of real dead folks as well as jokes, like the one that read, “Arsenio Hall’s Career.” Some of the “graves” had vampires or zombies crawling out of them too – it was pretty cool. 

Before he knew it, Chris found himself at the front of the property. He turned to go back the way he’d come, but his passage had tripped a motion detector, and a light came on in the driveway. He was suddenly mindful of the fact he was trespassing. He turned to walk around the block to return to the party. 

On the corner, he saw someone crouched down on the curb, hunched in on themselves like they were feeling sick maybe. “Hey, you ok?” Chris asked, approaching.

A guy dressed in a black turtleneck and a white, spiky wig looked up at him through large glasses. Chris thought he was supposed to be Andy Warhol. “What?”

“Are you OK? Looked like you were feeling sick, maybe.”

“Oh. Oh, thanks. No, I, um, I dropped my lighter down the sewer.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Not on purpose – it fell, uh, out of my pocket. These pants are too tight.” He stood up as if to demonstrate; he wore a pair of black pants that looked like they’d been painted onto him.

“I see what you mean.”

“Are you checking me out?” he asked, amused. His face was really pale, in great contrast to his dark eyebrows.

“No!”

“Why not?” He seemed really disappointed.

“I dunno why not. I’m Chris.” He held his hand out.

“Zachariah,” the guy replied, shaking Chris’s hand half-heartedly. His eyes traveled down to the gutter again. “I really want to get that lighter back – it was given to me by a lover of mine. He was a poet.”

“Really?” Chris was kind of impressed that anyone knew a poet; he had spent the summer reading everything Walt Whitman had ever written.

“He was so dear to me,” Zachariah said with a regretful look.

“You want me to help you get it back?” He crouched down in the gutter and peered down into the storm drain. “I dunno if I can see anything, it’s awfully dark. Don’t suppose you could get a flashlight?”

“I suppose I could, but it would mean going back home.”

“Is it far or something?”

“No, it’s just there.” Zachariah gestured to the house where the party was. “I just don’t want to go back there.”

“Why not?”

“The party’s so lame.”

“Well, do you want to get your lighter back or not?”

Zachariah bit his lower lip. Chris sighed and glanced away; a group of people, including Joe and Magenta, left the party, piled into a Jeep Cherokee, and drove away.

“Do you have a flashlight in your house?” 

“My roommate Corey does – it’s under the sink in the kitchen.”

Chris nodded and went back to the house to fetch it, wondering why, exactly, he was going. Something in Zachariah’s eyes, fleeting and desperate, compelled him, and he was nothing if not a gentleman. 

There were few people on the first floor of the house as he walked through, most apparently keeping to the basement where the dancing and the booze was. Chris was vaguely aware of a couple making out on a couch in the living room, but he ignored them and made a beeline for the kitchen. The room was huge, with a large, central island and ample cabinet space, a rough-made farm table taking up one half of the space. It was homey – didn’t feel much like a place where college students lived, not that Chris knew much about that. 

The sink was built into the island, and the flashlight – one of those huge Maglite things cops carried – was right where it was supposed to be. Chris quashed a feeling like he was stealing as he walked out the door unchallenged.

Zachariah was standing where Chris left him, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. He’d pushed his wig off, and Chris now recognized him as the person who’d been playing Hickey on stage earlier in the day. His dark hair was long in front, sweaty at the roots; he tossed his head to the side every so often to get it out of his eyes. “I brought the flashlight,” Chris said as he arrived.

“Good – oh, good!” Zachariah took the thing from Chris and flicked it on, getting down on his knees in the gutter and shining it down through the grate.

“You see anything?” Chris asked, crouching down beside him.

“I can’t be sure – I _think so_?” He got closer, his nose practically touching the cold iron. “I would swear I could see it.”

Chris got into a similar position. “Hey, hand that to me?” he asked, taking the flashlight from Zachariah when it was offered. “Is it silver?”

“Yeah – it’s stainless steel, actually.”

“I think I can see it – let me just…” Chris got down on his stomach and tried to fit his hand through the grate; he couldn’t fit it in past his elbow, so he tried a different tack – trying to hook his arm past the larger opening beside the curb. Once more he was unsuccessful. “I can’t do it – my arm’s just not long enough. Did you want to try?”

Zachariah did, but was similarly unsuccessful. 

“I’m sorry, man,” Chris said sincerely, standing up and brushing leaves and debris from his costume. “Maybe you can call the public works department and they can help you get it back?”

“Yeah, yeah, maybe.” Zachariah said, staring down through the grate morosely. 

Chris bent over and offered him a hand up. “Well, you want to go back inside to the party? It was going pretty well when I was in there.”

Zachariah made a face. “Nah, I am just not in a partying kind of mood.”

Chris nodded. “Yeah, me neither. Guess I’ll just walk back to campus then.” He turned and began to walk up the street.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” Zachariah called to him after a few moments.

Chris turned around. “How can you tell?”

“Campus is that way,” Zachariah said, hooking a thumb over his shoulder.

Chris could feel his face heating up. “Oh.”

“It happens a lot – the city can be a little confusing.”

“Really?”

“As far as you know.”

Chris began to walk back the way he’d come, passing Zachariah. “You want me to show you how to get back?”

“You could just tell me.”

“It’ kind of complicated.”

“Oh, OK,” Chris said. Truthfully, he was grateful for the companionship. Smoking weed sometimes made him paranoid, and he didn’t like to think what that would be like on the streets of a strange city.

They walked at a comfortable pace, but Chris was rarely OK with not talking, so after a while, he said, “So, obviously you go to CMU.” 

“Why is it so obvious?”

“I saw you earlier – on stage, rehearsing?”

Zachariah looked a bit surprised. “You were with the tour group?” Chris nodded. “Huh – I would’ve pegged you as a lot older than high school.”

“I’m 17, so I’m not a kid.” 

Zachariah nodded understandingly, which Chris appreciated. “I wouldn’t have called that rehearsing at all, I’d call that a major failure.”

“Don’t say that – I’m sure having a bunch of high schoolers tramping through when you’re trying to focus on a character as complicated as Hickey’s not going to pull the best performance out of an actor.”

“OK, first off, the tour office _knows_ they’re not supposed to be bringing people through when there are actors on stage, and secondly: what did you think? How was I?”

Chris smiled. “From what I saw, it was really good.”

“You really think so?”

“Well, I mean, I only saw like five minutes of it, but I think you have a really great understanding of the character.”

Zachariah beamed at him. “Thanks for saying that. I mean, I probably shouldn’t rely on a 17-year old from East Bum Fuck, Iowa for theatrical criticism, but it makes me feel better.”

“I’m from LA,” Chris said, only half annoyed. 

“Oh. Well. That’s different, then.”

“Really?”

“No.” 

Chris held back his laugh as long as he could, which wasn’t long at all. 

“I really take it seriously, you know?” Zachariah said as they mounted the curb on the next block. 

“Your acting? I can tell.”

“Really?” That seemed to please him. “One day, I’m going to be on Broadway. I know you think everyone says that, but I’m serious – I’ve been acting since I was nine, and I know in my bones it’s what I’m meant to do.”

“So, like, musicals and stuff?” Chris had gone to New York exactly one time in his life, and his mother had taken him and Katie to see _Cats_ when he was eight. It was awful, though Katie loved it and insisted on being called Grizabella for the rest of the weekend.

“No, serious stuff, like Shakespeare and Shepard and Tennessee Williams. Stuff I can sink my teeth into, not love songs for tourists.”

“That’s cool. I like Shakespeare,” he said, hoping to contribute to the conversation. 

“What, like Romeo and Juliet?”

“No, like Lear and Hamlet. I wrote a paper once about the homoerotic subtext in Othello.”

“What, you think Iago was gay for Othello?”

“Why not? I mean, who can get _that much_ jealousy and evil intent up for someone they _don’t_ want to fuck? Plus, he’s a raging misogynist.”

“Gay men don’t automatically hate women.”

“Well of course not, but it doesn’t mean Shakespeare didn’t think so, does it? He’s not infallible.”

“A valid point, I suppose. What’d you get on the paper?”

Chris frowned. “A 97.”

“Only a 97?” Zachariah said half-mockingly. “Woe!”

“She took points off because it went over the five-page limit,” Chris said darkly, still stung over the criticism; he kicked through a pile of dried leaves on the sidewalk. “As if good literary analysis can be contained by _word limits_!”

Zachariah stopped walking to pull a pack of clove cigarettes out of his pants pocket; when he reached for his lighter, he made a distressed noise. “You got a light?”

Chris patted himself down and then realized he didn’t even have any pockets – the key to the apartment Aimee Lynn had given him was stowed in his sneaker. “Sorry, man.”

“Damn.” He shoved the cigs back into his pocket. “Where are you staying?”

“Doherty Apartments? My sister’s friend is a senior here – she’s letting me crash with her.”

“So what did you want to study?”

“English? I think? I don’t know what I want to do with my life,” Chris admitted. A byproduct of having a therapist for a mother was that Chris was allowed to pursue whatever extra-curriculars – or hell, even curriculars – appealed to him. While that made him feel like he’d had a well-rounded experience, it didn’t make him very decisive. At all. “The only thing I do know is I like words and I like to read, but you don’t see many job ads for English majors in the paper.”

“The world needs ditch diggers too,” Zachariah said.

“Says the actor,” Chris pointed out and they both laughed. 

They walked on for a little while longer. Chris blinked as a raindrop fell on his eyelash, and looked up at the sky. “Aw man, it’s starting to rain.” 

The wind had picked up as well, the relative mildness of earlier in the day finally giving way as a cold front moved in from the west. Zachariah held an upturned hand out. “Oh well, what the hell,” he sang.

Chris smiled. “Catch-22.”

“It’s my favorite book. Sometimes I think I’m Yossarian and I just want to say fuck it all and head out to sea in an inflatable raft.”

“That’s bleak, man.”

“I’m a bleak man. Who do you most identify with in the book?”

“I dunno – the dead man in Yossarian's tent?”

“Who's the bleak one now?”

Chris just kicked at another pile of leaves and looked up again as the rain picked up speed. Most of it was getting caught by the leaves of the trees they walked under, at least for now.

They walked some more, taking a turn down a wider street that appeared to be more of a main thoroughfare. There was a dry cleaner on one corner, a luncheonette on another, but it was closed – nowhere they could go to get out of the rain. Chris considered removing the sheet he wore to wrap around himself.

The street ran east-west, and so the wind was stronger, and Chris watched wide-eyed as it pulled leaves from the trees. Some, from maple trees, were exceptionally large and flopped and fluttered; these were the ones that hit the ground. Others, from oaks or chestnuts, just kept going. “I wonder where they’ll end up – the leaves,” he mused, stopping to watch.

Zachariah shrugged. “I’ve never really thought about it.”

“You think they’ll land in the yards? Or make it downtown?”

“Probably both.”

“Or maybe they’ll wind up in one of the rivers. And just float away?”

“I suppose they could, if the wind was out of the south or north.”

Chris realized Zachariah was standing right behind him. He turned his head to look up at the older man, who had a few inches on Chris. They stood right under a streetlamp, and its light illuminated Zachariah’s face in an odd way. He had strong features – dark, deep-set eyes beneath heavy brows and a prominent nose; he wasn’t what Chris’s mom would have called “conventionally attractive,” but Chris found his face to be interesting, handsome. The rain that had fallen clung to his hair in tiny beads, taking its time to be absorbed. He found it – and Zachariah – totally mesmerizing. 

Zachariah looked down at him, noticed Chris’s regard, and smiled a strange smile. “What?” he said.

“Nothing,” Chris said, his mouth remaining open. “I think I’m still kinda high.”

Zachariah laughed and stepped forward and the spell was broken. “We should go this way,” he said, leading Chris down another, different street, and Chris followed. After a block or so, Chris looked around them. The area they were walking through was different than the one they'd left. The lots were smaller, as well as the houses. Most of them were very similar, with aluminum siding and contrasting shutters on every window. 

Zachariah came to a stop in front of one of the houses; it was different in that it was made of red brick, and built on a corner lot so it had a larger yard, with a concrete path leading up to its front doors. “They’re having a party,” Zachariah said quietly.

“Nice house,” Chris observed. And it was - small yet tidy - homey-looking.

“I used to know the people who lived here.”

“Really?” Chris looked up at the house; many of the lights were on, and he could see folks inside – young, though older than he and Zachariah. The house was crowded and everyone was in costume, laughing and drinking from real glasses. Someone walked up to the porch from the driveway, which was off to the side, and went right through the front door. “You want to go in?” Chris asked. “Take a breather? Maybe dry off a little?”

“Sure,” Zachariah said in a disaffected tone. Chris headed up, not sure if Zachariah would follow, but he did.

The house was really nice inside, and had clearly recently been remodeled. It had dark hardwood floors and white plaster walls, a staircase that rose from the center of the entry hall to the upper floor. There were rooms on either side of the front hall, the one to the left a formal parlor, with what looked like a dining room beyond it, the one to the right was a study. Folks were gathered in the parlor, talking and laughing. Chris thought it prudent to head for the kitchen before anyone noticed them, reasoning that was where the drinks would be anyway. He led the way and Zachariah followed.

The kitchen was very cozy, with an island in the center and a small, recessed family room off to the side. There was a ton of food piled on the island, and a bar was set up on one of the countertops, with every liquor imaginable, plus soft drinks and beers in a cooler on the floor. 

“What’s your pleasure?” Chris asked, moving over to the drinks and turning to Zachariah.

“What? Oh, um, Scotch?”

Chris nodded and searched through the bottles. He spotted a bottle of Glenlivet and grabbed a pair of rocks glasses, pouring two fingers for each of them. He handed one to Zach and stowed the bottle back where he’d found it. “Dude – spinach dip,” he said and headed for the buffet. It had been hours since he’d eaten, and he was suddenly ravenous. He took a plate and piled it with veggies and dip, some cheese cubes, Buffalo wings, and some puffy-looking thing. 

“Wanna go sit down?” he asked Zachariah around a mouthful of cheese.

“Sure.”

There was a breakfast nook off to one side that was currently unoccupied, so Chris led the way. “Want some cheese and stuff?” he said, pushing his plate to Zachariah, who took a celery stick. Chris tucked in, devouring the chicken first, then the puffy thing – it turned out to have some sort of mushroomy stuff inside – then grabbed some more of the cheese. He glanced up at Zachariah, who was just playing with the celery stick between his fingertips, not looking like he was the least bit interested in eating it. “Something wrong?”

“No, I’m cool. It’s just – it’s been a while since I’ve been here.”

“You want to have a look around? See what they changed?” Chris’s Aunt Nancy (who was really Chris’s mom’s best friend and no relation) was a real estate agent, and always got Chris’s mom in to see the different houses that came up for sale in their neighborhood. It wasn’t that his mom was nosey – so she said – it was that she was fascinated to see what folks did with their interiors. 

Zachariah suddenly looked very conflicted. Chris was about to say to forget it when he drained all the whisky out of his glass, winced, and gasped “OK,” barely audibly.

Chris got up and disposed of his empty plate in the pile beside the sink, then did the same with both their glasses – Zachariah had emptied Chris’s too by the time he’d turned around. He looked slightly green, no doubt because of the Scotch, so Chris waited until he looked like he’d gained some kind of equilibrium before encouraging him to stand.

“Where should we start? Upstairs?” 

“Sure.”

Most of the people there seemed to barely notice them, so Chris pretended like he belonged there and led the way up the stairs. There was a child safety gate attached to the banister at the top, unlocked. If there were little kids in the house, they must not be around if the gate was unlatched, a fact that seemed to be upheld by the fact that all the rooms up here stood with their doors wide open. 

“Where do we start?” Chris asked, but Zachariah was already heading off to the right, so he followed. 

There was nothing super cool or interesting at this end – a bathroom, two small bedrooms. One of them was done up like a nursery, with a crib and matching dresser and changing table, a rocking chair in one corner, and a hobby horse in the other. The other was completely bare, with some unpacked moving boxes piled along one wall. This was the one Zachariah stood in front of, staring at the blank walls with an equally blank expression.

“Anything good in here?” Chris asked, but his companion did not answer.

“Should we check out the master suite?” he said instead, and led Chris to the opposite side of the house.

The master bedroom was large, probably accounting for half the space of the upstairs. The room was decorated in greens and browns and was dominated by a four poster bed in the center. Chris thought his mom would totally love it, though he thought it was a bit large for the room.

Zachariah walked in and Chris followed, a little reluctantly. Looking was one thing, but entering someone’s private room was another, and he was beginning to regret coming up here. But Zachariah didn’t seem intent on snooping through the drawers or – much to Chris’s relief – rooting through their jewelry. Instead, he headed for the walk-in closet.

The closet was large, if not huge, with racks drilled into the walls from which a lot of clothes hung, both men’s and women’s. But it was not even _this_ that Zachariah was looking at or for. No, his attention was wholly captured by the door frame, of all things, placing his fingertips upon it as if he was touching some sacred relic, an inscrutable expression on his face.

“What is it?” Chris began, bending forward to look. Inscribed on the wall at intervals, in black Magic Marker in a strong and decisive hand, were a series of short lines and words – names and measurements, clearly.

 _Joseph, Age 8_ it said, and _Zachary, Age 5_.

There were a bunch of them but they seemed to stop after a certain age for each of the boys.

“Oh, that’s so cool,” Chris said. He had friends whose parents did such things – his own never had, not really. “Is that –“

“We have to go,” Zachariah said abruptly, straightening up and walking from the room.

“What – now?” Chris asked, sparing a final glance at the names and realizing what he was seeing. He took off after his new friend, who was already on the landing, and followed him out the front door.

“Wait up,” he said when he finally caught up to Zachariah on the front walk, placing a hand on his shoulder to slow him down some. It was raining harder now, and Chris flinched as the cold water hit his exposed skin. “Zachariah!”

“I think we both know that’s not my real name.”

“OK, yes. What should I call you?”

“Zach – it’s just normal Zach.”

“OK, Zach then. What just happened?”

“Nothing.” He charged out of the front yard and Chris scurried to catch up.

“I don’t think it was nothing – was that your house?”

Zach didn’t answer, just kept walking, his longer legs taking him away faster than Chris could follow without running like an idiot. He walked on for another two blocks before he slowed and Chris caught up.

“I’m sorry – I shouldn’t have come, it was so stupid. God, I’m such an asshole. Let me just take you back to campus and you can forget you ever met me.”

“You’re not an asshole, stop. That was your house back there?”

Zach stopped walking and raked a hand through his hair, pushing it off his forehead. Since it was wet, it stayed more or less swept back, and Chris could see his eyes; they were haunted, that was the only word Chris could find for it.

“Yeah. Yeah, that was my house. A long time ago.”

“What happened?”

Zach sighed, glancing back the way they’d come, though the house was no longer in sight. “I lived there with my mom and dad and my brother Joe until I was seven. That’s when my dad got sick and died and then things were never the same.” He nodded once, and pressed his lips together. “Never the same.”

“Wow, I’m – I’m sorry,” Chris said, at a near loss for words.

“Don’t be, it was a long time ago.” Zach turned and began walking back toward campus again, and Chris hurried to catch up. 

They walked shoulder to shoulder in total silence; even the leaves were no longer rustling, having been softened up by the rain. The only sound was the occasional sniffle coming from Zach. It might have just been the cold, but it was killing Chris that anyone felt miserable. When they stopped at a street corner to wait for the lights to change – they were entering a more urbanized area with larger buildings, less residential – Chris slipped his hand inside of Zach’s and held it. He could feel the other man stiffen momentarily, then he relaxed and grasped Chris’s hand back. Given the weather, both their hands had to have been cold, but the presence of another person’s hand in his gave Chris a warm feeling anyway. He tightened his grip as the lights changed and they crossed the street together.

Zach began speaking without preamble, “I think he was sick for a long time, only I was too little to understand. It was _cancer_ ,” he whispered the word, as if it was still taboo, “I don’t even know what kind, I never asked, even when I got older. My mom, she’s just so heartbroken, you know? Still.”

Chris didn’t answer, just squeezed Zach’s hand back. 

“I remember him being really tall and happy. He was the kind of person that made people laugh, especially me. He’d lift me up in the air and toss me around, and he always caught me. One time, I laughed so hard I puked, isn’t that funny? 

“But then it all changed, and he wasn’t smiling all that much anymore, and I wasn’t allowed to play too loudly in the house, and I hated it. I hated him, if you can believe it. Such a stupid, selfish kid I was.”

“You didn’t know what was going on, though,” Chris pointed out, but Zach kept talking, ignoring him or not hearing.

“And then he was gone, and my mom couldn’t afford to keep the house – my dad had it mortgaged to the gills, and we couldn’t stay there. We moved to a crappy two-bedroom apartment in Green Tree, and that’s where I grew up. I remember those days… so well. Everything was just sadness and no one knew how to help each other. My brother started riding his bike, like, _all the time_ , all over the city – all over. And I would play with my toys and action figures and create these little stories with them, do all the voices, you know? It’s probably why I got good at acting, why my fourth grade teacher recommended me for an after school performing arts program.

“I like to think that saved me, but I know it’s total bullshit.”

“Maybe it did,” Chris suggested.

“Nah, it’s total bullshit. No one saves anyone, they just… they save themselves or they fail.”

Chris stopped walking. “That’s kind of a harsh philosophy.”

“It’s the one that works for me, so if you’re selling, I’m not buying.”

“I’m not selling anything,” Chris said before taking Zach’s face in both hands and kissing him.

It wasn’t the suavest of moves, or the best of kisses – it was mostly the mashing together of lips and teeth – but Chris felt the urge to do it so strongly he didn’t even think it through, and then Zach pulled away.

“You sure you’re not selling anything?”

“No,” Chris said, and then Zach was kissing him back, his hands around his shoulders, holding him close. He tasted of rain and whisky and it was the best kiss of Chris’s admittedly limited experience. He slid his hands down Zach’s chest and then around his waist, and they stood there for a minute and let their lips do the communicating for them.

At last Chris pulled away, before anything more could happen and he embarrassed himself on a darkened street in Pittsburgh at one in the morning. He rested his head on Zach’s shoulder and let his breathing calm.

“Thanks for that, that was really sweet,” Zach said, his voice low and rumbly.

“You looked like you needed it.”

“You’re probably right.” He slid his hands down until they rested at Chris’s waist, and gently pushed him away. “But I need to get you home right now.” Chris made a disappointed noise and Zach grabbed one of his hands. “Because I need to figure out how to get that lighter back. It’s actually my dad’s – I don’t know what I was thinking lying to you about it, saying it was given to me by a lover, and calling myself Zachariah.”

“We’ll chalk it up to Halloween silliness.”

“Or just me being a pretentious douche?” Zach laughed, so Chris did too, but his eyes still looked sad. “My mom doesn’t know I have it, so I have to get it back. But first I promised to take you home.”

“I could help you get it.”

“You don’t have to – that’s really nice, but it’s my own fault for playing with it in the street.”

“Why were you doing that?”

He blushed. “I was practicing opening and lighting it with one hand, you know like they do in movies?”

“God, you _are_ a pretentious douche.” Chris poked him in the chest playfully. “What makes you think I wouldn’t want to help you get it back?” Zach shrugged. “Hey, two heads are better than one in any problem – it wouldn’t be printed on a fortune cookie if it wasn’t true. And besides, it hasn’t rained all that much – yet. You don’t want the rain to wash it away, so come on, let’s head back.”

As it turned out, storm drain grates were made of cast iron and were incredibly heavy and difficult to budge, even with crowbars. This was probably by design, Chris thought, to keep harebrained teenagers like him from doing what he was currently doing. Luckily, even though the party at Zach’s house was mostly over, his cousin Phil drove a tow truck, and for the price of a diner breakfast, he agreed to come over and help.

It did not take much to get the thing off once the heavy equipment arrived. Apparently this was done once or twice a year by the city so that debris and leaves and stuff that accumulated in the traps beneath the grates could be cleared away. Once the thing was lifted away, those assembled – Chris, Zach, his roommates Corey and Neal, and cousin Phil – all looked at each other. 

"Who's going down?" Phil asked. 

They all looked at Zach. "What?"

"What do you mean, 'what?' We're here for you, Zach. "

"There's no way I'm going down there. You guys know I’m claustrophobic."

"Oh yeah, I remember,” Corey said. He nudged Neal with the back of his hand. "Remember that time in ninth grade when he was gonna be the mummy?"

Neal snorted with laughter. "Oh my god, right? He was practically crying to be let out of that coffin."

“It was terrifying," Zach defended 

"It was cardboard. You could have gotten out at any time."

"I panicked."

"Sure. Anyway, someone's got to go down there."

"Who's the smallest?" Corey asked. 

Chris felt suddenly vulnerable as all eyes came to rest on him. 

"I'm still growing!"

"Well it's a good thing you are, Pizza Pizza, because you're going down there," Corey said, and crouched down in the street. "Come on, I'll help you down."

"Ah jeez, ok, fine," Chris said. He stripped off the now soaking wet sheet he wore and dumped it on the ground. "What?" he said aggressively as they all looked at the t-shirt dress he wore. "It's my tunic or whatever."

"But where do you keep your keys?"

"Shut up, Moosa!" Zach said. 

Chris sat down on the ground and dropped his feet through the opening, wincing as the cold cement of the pipe scraped against his shins. He shimmied forward as Corey and then Zach each took one of his arms, lowering him down at a pace he dictated. 

Chris winced again when his feet splashed down in about four inches of water that soaked through his Chuck Taylors in record time. He was standing in the opening with his shoulders above the street and the storm drain snaking off under the street on either side. He was surprised at how large the concrete pipe was – perhaps three feet in diameter, though it was completely dark. 

"I'm gonna need a flashlight." 

Phil retrieved one from his truck. Chris switched it on and crouched down carefully. He shone the beam in the direction of the water flow, but didn't really see much. Sighing resignedly – he should have known he'd have to get dirty – he crawled down into the pipe. It wasn't that easily done one-handed, but the flashlight was too big to fit in his mouth. Luckily, he only had to go about ten feet before the flashlight’s beam picked up the gleam of the bright silver of the lighter. It had not washed away, it had been caught on a kind of mini sandbar of sediment and leaf litter. 

Chris rinsed it off in the runoff and had a look. He understood why Zach would want it back. It was streamlined and elegant, with the initials _JJQ_ engraved on it in simple block letters. "I got it!" he called, his voice sounding strangely muffled to his ears. 

He shoved the lighter in his mouth, and began to back out, cracking his head on the edge of the pipe's join for good measure. "Ow," he said around the object in his mouth, the pain way out of proportion to the force with which he’d banged it, and he dropped the flashlight as he raised his hands to his head. 

“Chris, you OK?” Zach called.

“Yeah, I’m all right,” he called, picking up the flashlight and backing out into the storm drain’s opening to the street. Then warm hands were on him and the guys were lifting him out of there. 

Chris handed the lighter to Zach, who rubbed it on his shirt reverentially and stared at it in his hands as if Chris had delivered a miracle to him or something. Who knew, maybe he had. 

"Thank you. So much," Zach began, eyes grateful, but then Phil was rushing them out of there so he could replace the storm drain grate before a cop showed up. 

By the time he was done, it had started to rain again and Chris was shivering. 

"God look at you," Zach said. Chris was soaked to his skin, his legs and forearms covered in silt and bits of leaves. "Come on inside and get cleaned up.”

Once inside, Zach showed him to the bathroom so he could shower. Chris caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror over the sink and barely recognized himself. His hair was plastered to his face, the makeup the girls had put on him had run and smudged, and he looked like a demented raccoon. 

He made quick work of the shower, because they were all waiting for him, and pulled on the sweats and Ramones t-shirt that Zach had given him. The legs of the pants were too long, so he had to roll them up. His sneakers were still wet, but there was nothing else he could do, so he shoved his bare feet in them and tried to ignore the way they squelched. 

He abandoned his wet “clothes” on the bathroom floor and walked down the stairs, where he found the rest of the guys who’d helped out sitting around the living room playing video games. 

“There he is,” Zach said with a smile.

“Your hero!” Corey said in a falsetto to Zach, clasping his hands beneath his chin and making big eyes at Zach. 

Chris blushed to his hair as Zach flipped his roommate off. “Asshole,” he said, then got up. “Who’s up for the diner?” he asked. “I know I could personally eat a horse.”

The all-night diner they went to was unlike anything Chris had ever experienced. The only all-night places he was familiar with were Dennys and convenience stores, so this was a new experience. The main part of the diner where they entered looked like a stainless steel, double-wide trailer, with an added wing tacked onto the back. Inside, there was a counter along the back wall of the trailer and booths lined up in front of it; to the right was the cashier behind a low table. The addition housed multiple tables in an open plan, and it was to one of these that they were taken. 

Zach invited Chris to order whatever he wanted – he was treating everyone as thanks for their help retrieving the lighter. Chris was torn on what to order – he craved a sandwich or something substantial, but it was early enough for breakfast.

“Get the Monte Cristo,” Neal advised, “it’s a little of both.”

What arrived was a monstrosity of a sandwich – something like a club sandwich made with French toast – and Chris didn’t quite know what to do about it. Luckily, it was insanely delicious. 

By the end of the meal, as the rest of the guys talked and joshed each other, Chris sat with drooping eyelids, fighting off sleep. It had been a very long day – first the redeye from LA followed by the tour of the campus and two parties tonight – and he was just about at the end of his tolerance. 

“Aw, the kid’s looking tie-tie,” Phil said, slurping coffee from his saucer. “Ain’t it time to take him home?”

“It probably is,” Zach said and smiled a soft smile at Chris. “You ready to go?”

Chris didn’t want the night to end, not really, but he could not stifle a huge yawn. He soon found himself sitting between Phil and Zach in the cab of Phil’s tow truck, trying not to nod off. 

“Where to?” Phil asked, and Zach gave him the location on campus where Chris needed to go. 

Chris wasn’t sure how long it took to get there – he fell asleep almost as soon as they left the diner’s parking lot – but they arrived way too soon.

“I’ll just walk him up, OK?” Zach said to Phil, who made a non-committal noise and waved them off, then pulled a Spider-Man comic out from somewhere and began reading.

Aimee Lynn’s ground floor apartment was dark – naturally they’d all be asleep at 5:00 in the morning – but suddenly Chris understood what it felt like for his sister to come home after a date or something. It was kind of weird, and the air was full of an electrical kind of expectation.

“So,” he said with a smile.

“So,” Zach replied. “So this is it, I think.”

“Oh. Yeah, OK.”

“I don’t want to be an asshole.”

“You’re not.”

“I really like you.”

“Me too.”

“But let’s not say we’ll keep in touch, because we both know that's not going to happen. You live three thousand miles away, and you’ve got your senior year ahead of you. You don’t need the distraction.”

“You’re probably right.” Chris hated that he was, and he hated the tightness he could feel developing in his chest. 

“But if you do decide to go here, look me up. You know where I live. I’ll be a senior next year and I’ll show you around the place – OK? All the good study carrels at the library, and all the best bookstores."

Chris’s face brightened at the mention of bookstores. “Sounds nice.”

“If you only knew how hard this was,” Zach whispered, reaching up to push Chris’s bangs out of his eyes. His fingertips lingered over his face, traveling down his cheek and along his jaw and chin, as if he was trying to memorize something. He shook his head as if he’d come to a decision, then he leaned forward and they kissed. 

It wasn’t a very long kiss, but it was simple and sweet, and left Chris smiling when Zach pulled away. 

‘Goodbye, I guess,” Chris said, fumbling for the key to the apartment.

Zach sniffed. “Until we meet again.” 

 

**EPILOGUE – 2005**

Chris scanned the area around the Crunch Gym in Silver Lake for street parking and was not successful. He grudgingly headed for the parking garage and took the first space he found. He hated paying for parking. Even if he'd just completed _Princess Diaries_ and was about to start work on the new Joe Carnahan film, he still knew he'd have to be ready for the lean times and every penny counted. 

He was here to meet with a personal trainer Carnahan had recommended – in fact, if it hadn’t been for the fact his director wanted him totally ripped for this role, he wouldn’t have bothered. A personal trainer was an extravagance he just did not understand the need for – he was content to run in the park near his new condo for exercise. Now _there_ was an appropriate place for him to invest his money and time. He was grateful that the work seemed to be coming to him with more frequency lately, because he was finally able to move out of the house he shared with four buddies in Studio City and get his own place. 

The girl at the front desk explained where to go to wait for his appointment – apparently this guy Stu had a private space that he leased from the gym. The entrance was down a long hallway lined with smaller studios where a variety of classes were being taught, from spinning to yoga to – was that a stripper pole? Man, those girls’ abs were ripped, he thought as he paused to watch for a moment. There was just no way he had the strength in his core to pull that off. 

The private studio was the last one down the hallway, and Chris had been told to wait until summoned, so he did. There was one other guy there when he walked in, and he looked absolutely wrecked. He stood with his hands braced on his knees, sweat-drenched and panting. When he looked up at Chris, his face was drawn and haggard. “Hey man, you OK?” Chris asked.

The guy straightened up, clearly surprised to no longer be alone, and attempted to answer. “Yes,” he croaked. He bent back over to grab for his duffel bag, from which he pulled a bottle of water that he cracked open and sucked down half of in less than five seconds. 

“What happened?”

“Stu,” he answered, hooking a thumb toward the door. 

Chris regarded the door with a growing sense of trepidation. 

“Best workout of my life,” the guy added, but the way his eyes sunk into his head from exhaustion, Chris wasn’t sure if he believed him.

“You wanna sit down orrr…”

“Do I know you?” the guy asked suddenly.

Chris blinked and looked at him more closely. He was tall, lean, with dark hair and pale skin, wide shoulders and narrow hips and… well, Chris stopped himself right there, because he no one wanted to be cruised when he looked like gently reheated death. But there _was_ something about him. “I dunno – maybe?”

“You live around here?”

“Just moved here,” Chris said. “Like a week ago.”

“So I guess it’s not that. I feel like I should know you though.”

“Me too. Where’d you go to school?”

“Carnegie Mellon.”

And then it clicked over in Chris’s head and he couldn’t believe his eyes. “Zachariah?” he said without thinking.

“Chris!” Zach said, pointing at him. “It’s Zach, though, not Zachariah. Christ, I can’t believe what a tool I was back then.”

“That’s right!” Chris said – he’d remembered his error almost as soon as the word had left his mouth. “Holy crap, man, I can’t believe it. How the hell are you?”

Zach smiled, the expression transforming his face entirely until he practically beamed. “I’m good. I’m great, actually – been living out here for a while.”

“You finding work?”

“Yeah – yeah, a few things here and there. Just got cast in a series on MTV.”

“No shit, really? They have shows on there?” Chris really had no idea – he hated how douchey he sounded, but he legitimately didn't watch much TV, because when he had free time he preferred to read or write. “Congratulations! What’s it about?”

“It’s a comedy – starring Tori Spelling.”

Chris thought that if Zach’s comedic delivery could even approach the hilarity with which he’d just delivered that statement, he’d do all right out here in Hollywood. “Congratulations.”

“And how are you? You filled out pretty nicely.”

Chris could feel his cheeks coloring. “Thanks.”

Zach had a faraway smile on his face. “You know, I think about that Halloween sometimes, and it just makes me smile, man. I always wondered what happened to you. Where’d you wind up going to school?”

“Berkeley. Then I went to conservatory at ACT in San Francisco.”

“No shit – so you found a use for that English major, huh? That’s terrific, man.”

“Ha ha, yeah.” Chris felt warm all over – he couldn’t believe Zach remembered that detail. That night in Pittsburgh had actually put the bug in Chris’s ear about getting into acting again, and while it wasn’t the only factor, it had probably been the first. 

“You working?” 

“Yeah, that’s why I’m here, actually – have to get in shape for an upcoming role.” 

As if on cue, the trainer, Stu, poked his head out of the studio and looked at Chris. “You Pine?”

“Yep.”

“Come on in when you’re ready.” He retreated inside.

“Well, I won’t keep you – or Stu – waiting. We should get coffee sometime soon.”

“I’d like that. Anyplace good around here? I’m still learning the area.”

“You ever hear of Lamill?”

“No – good?”

“They’ve got these cookie things, man. They’ll change your life.”

“Sure, let’s do that – I look forward to it.” 

They stood there smiling at each other, awkward and yet genuinely pleased to see each other, wondering if they’d have the rapport they had all those years ago. “See you soon, then,” Chris said and turned toward the studio.

The first consultation with Stu turned out to be not all that harrowing – they were there to review Chris’s goals and to take a measurements of his various parts with a scary-looking set of calipers. IT was a good thing, because Chris was finding it hard to concentrate. He couldn’t believe he’d run into Zach of all people. It had been a while since he’d thought of that night in Pittsburgh, but when he did he always wondered how his life would have changed if he hadn’t seen Berkeley a week later and fell in love with the campus. What would have happened if he’d matriculated at CMU and looked Zach up the following September? Would they have been friends? Lovers? It was ludicrous to speculate, but it didn't ever cost anything to spoil himself in that way. Maybe now was the time to find out what might still happen.

Before he left, he wrote his number on a piece of paper and asked Stu to give it to Zach the next time he saw him. Then he packed up his stuff, grabbed his bottle of water, and left.

“Hey,” Zach said, getting up from the floor where he’d been sitting and studying something on his phone. He looked a little chagrined, and smiled shyly at Chris.

“Hey,” Chris replied, a genuinely happy smile on his face.

“Want to get that coffee now?”

“Desperately.”

\----

Thank you for your time.


End file.
